Tales of Hobbits
by andbreathe
Summary: The reader is Sherlock Holmes, the listeners are his two children Sophie and Hamish, and tonight's bedtime story is the Hobbit.


_"Thank goodness, said Bilbo laughing, and handed him the tobacco-jar._

The end," Sherlock said, closing the book. He smiled down at his two children where they lay, wide-eyed, listening. His beautiful children. "Sleep-time now," he said gently.

Sophie gulped and said nothing, but Hamish wasn't going to give up just yet. "Tell us more, Daddy," he pleaded.

Sherlock reached out to ruffle his hair. "The story's finished, Hamish. That was the end. Bilbo's finished his quest and he's back home now."

"But that can't be the end," sad Sophie reasonably. "Bilbo wouldn't stop having adventures. He would put the magic ring on again and go and find the Elves and they would all go on another adventure."

Sherlock smiled. Sophie was always full of that absolute certainty that only a child could have. He couldn't help but smile every time she came out with one of her comments. "Tell you what, you go to sleep now and you can dream all about Bilbo's adventures."

"Can I dream about Bilbo's adventures too?" Hamish asked shyly in his little voice.

"Yes, of course," said Sherlock. Little Hamish. Always so quiet and gentle. Ever since he and Sophie had begun to talk, Hamish had always been the quiet one, not once raising his voice above Sophie's. Little Hamish. And little Sophie. Despite her personality being big enough to fit two people, she was still a very, very small and vulnerable child.

But they were both his children, and right now they were safe, and that was what mattered. "You can both have lovely dreams about Bilbo and the Elves, and tell me all about them in the morning."

"I don't want to dream about elves," mumbled Hamish. "Want to dream about dragons."

A second smile crossed Sherlock's face. "You can dream about whatever you want to dream about. But you can't dream if you're not asleep." He patted his son's head. "Hey, Hamish? You go to sleep, and then you can dream about dragons."

Sophie's voice piped up from the other bed. "You can dream when you're awake, when you daydream."

Of course. That was Sophie- finding a logical answer to everything.

Took after him, he supposed.

He stood up. "There is a time for daydreaming, and that's during the day. But right now it's night-time. It's time for nightdreaming." He looked at his two children again. "Goodnight, Hamish. Goodnight, Sophie."

"Night-night, Daddy," they replied simultaneously.

He gave them one last smile, and turned away, walking towards the door. Placing his hand on the handle, he stopped, closed his eyes, and breathed out. It was like this almost every night. He couldn't rest easy until Sophie and Hamish were safe in bed. And even then, sometimes, he would still lie awake in bed for a long time, thinking, worrying, and wondering, again and again, if he had made the right decision in taking on two very young children into the unstable, dangerous life that he led.

He had had more brushes with death than might be though humanly possible. His own home, supposed to be a place of refuge, had been searched, invaded, blown up… And behind that all, hidden, but omnipresent, was the threat. The name, torn from a dying serial killer's lips. The endless game with the endless countdowns. The broken, flickering blue light of a swimming pool, and an unwelcome meeting. That was the threat, and it never would go away.

Every night, the thoughts plagued his mind.

"Daddy," said Sophie.

He opened his eyes and turned round. Sophie was looking nervously up at him. "Yes, Sophie?"

"Daddy, Hamish says you're not our real daddy. Is he lying, Daddy?"

Sherlock froze. How could words do that? How could mere collections of sounds reach inside him and tear him into so many pieces? He took a deep breath, and walked back over to her bed. Kneeling down, he swallowed, and spoke.

"Sophie, what Hamish means is that you're not my children by birth." He stopped abruptly. How was he supposed to explain this? "I'm not related to you." Sophie's eyes looked up into his almost pleadingly, and she gulped. Sherlock bit his lip. "But Sophie, that doesn't mean I'm not your daddy."

"Does. Not my daddy," mumbled Sophie, her voice muffled.

Logically, Sherlock thought. But there was one thing that Hamish and Sophie, and John, and Mrs Hudson, and all the others had taught him. Logic doesn't always matter. Not always.

"Sophie, there's something very important that I have to teach you." He looked over to Hamish. "And you too, Hamish." He stood up and placed himself between their beds. "Family isn't the people who are related to you. It's the people who really matter to you. Take Uncle John." The ghost of a smile played on his face. "An uncle is a sibling of your parents. Logically. But John's not related to me, not by birth. But he's my brother all the same. Do you understand?"

He looked at Hamish. Hamish looked up at him and shook his head shyly.

"Okay," he said. "I'm saying I am your daddy, even though I'm not related to you. I'm your daddy because… well, because you're my children, and I love you." Hamish squirmed at the word 'love', in the way that only little children do. "Unconditional love. Do you know what that means?" Hamish shook his head. "It means that whatever you do, I'll still love you. If you do something bad, I might be a bit cross, but it doesn't really matter. I'll still love you to bits."

"Don't want to be in bits," mumbled Sophie. Her lip wobbled.

Sherlock bit his lip, a hysterical laugh threatening to burst out of him. He gathered Sophie in his arms before that could happen. "'S just a saying, Sophie. Hey." Sophie buried her head in his shoulder. "Hey."

"Are you my daddy, Daddy?" Sophie mumbled, barely audibly, into his shoulder.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Yes, Sophie," he said as gently as possible.

"Are you _my_ Daddy too?" said Hamish. His voice was so quiet speaking these words that Sherlock couldn't figure out at first what he had said.

"What was that, Hamish?" he asked.

"Are you my Daddy as well?" whispered Hamish. This time his voice was slightly above audible levels.

"Of course I am," said Sherlock. He put an arm around Hamish as well. "I always will be."

His children didn't let go for a long time. When, at last, they did, Sherlock stood up. Hamish and Sophie's eyes followed his movement.

"Night, Daddy," said Sophie, looking up at him.

Daddy. The most beautiful word he had ever heard. "Night, Sophie." he smiled. "Night, Hamish." He went over to the doorway once more and switched the room into darkness. "Sweet dreams," he said softly, and closed the door behind him.


End file.
